


Maple Hurst

by wickedrum



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Apologies, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emetophilia, F/M, Friendship, Injury, M/M, Whump, coda ep6, my Geralt is somewhere between Netflix and book!Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedrum/pseuds/wickedrum
Summary: Showverse, a few years after ep106. Jaskier’s mind is wasting away at home, having finally accepted his duty to watch over his family’s estates and the seat of the viscountship of Lettenhove with it. Until..
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 122





	1. Faraway Tides

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: I barely own my knickers. When I am writing, especially whump, it's mainly for my own pleasure.
> 
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier friendship.

Jaskier, or better known in these Northern pastures as Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and official noble dapifer of the dominion of East Kerack as newly appointed by the Court at Cidaris just as his father has been before him, sat numbly in the twilight staring into his cup of wine, wits dulled not just by the alcohol but also the menial tasks of overseeing the landholding’s accounts and talking politics while out falconing with neighbouring nobels. He welcomed the appearance of his hall-porter this late in the evening, he was going to send him out right away for some footman to bring more wine, especially if there was a visitor arriving. The porter however, looked rather winded, approaching quicker than normal servant etiquette required, “Sire, there’s somebody downstairs. I couldn’t get a name, but it’s a behemoth of a man with grey hair, or probably not a man at all.”

“Oh, not needed, I know the name,” Jaskier suddenly felt juvenile, with none of his titles bestowing him the decorum most people have immediately countered him with as soon as they found out who he was. But what had possessed the witcher to turn up like this.

“Sire,” the servant looked nervous, “I’m sorry, we don’t know if he’s alive, we didn’t dare touch him, just in case.”

“No, no, no, what do you mean? What happened?” The courtier’s unease grew with every moment.

“He fell off his horse at the gate, a puddle of blood under him. We were not going to have anything to do with him, but he seems to be holding a plectrum in his fist, one of those turtle shell ones Your Lordship has in his study.”

“You what? No.” Jaskier was ready for action as he flew through doors, expecting his servant to follow him, “get the chambermaids to boil some water and bring linens, find the stableman to take care of the horse, send at least two men with a strong curtain so we can lift the stranger into it and another servant into Ansegis for a healer, ask the kitchen to heat something up left over from dinner, the maid’s to make up the guest room,” he ran down the stairs. It’s not like this was his first time doing something like this. He paid no heed to any of the servants looking at him curiously as he grabbed the torch by the door and ran across the courtyard, or to the weary farmhands who gave a wide berth to the sword bearing figure lying on his side, unconscious in the mud. “Oh sweet Roach,” Jaskier patted the old girl’s flank as he knelt in the mud too, his respectable patrician garments be damned. 

It was only then that the horse finally stepped back a bit, no longer feeling the need to protect her master with her body. The sonneteer placed the handle of the torch into a random divot in the ground. It was still relatively light outside, but he knew it soon wouldn’t be and he needed to see what the damage was. Just like Roach, Geralt looked no different to how he’d looked when Jaskier had last seen him up on the mountaintop, bar for a pronounced paleness of a blue hue that had the elegist panic. It took way too many moments to locate a heartbeat and even longer to find the origin of the bleeding given that Geralt’s entire front was soaked in the precious liquid. Once more, Jaskier spared no thought to his doublet that he haphazardly and temporarily tied round the abdominal wound and by then his valet and butler appeared. “Quick, we need to get him inside,” the master led and supervised the operation of tucking the curtain under Geralt and moving him to his other side so he could be lifted. The servants didn’t dare to question it, nor the bloodstains that came to decorate the carpets all the way through transit. His housekeeper was about to open her mouth, but Jaskier was already shouting at her, “has everything been done that I’ve asked? Do not just stand there!”

“Yes, we’ve done it, My Lord.”

“Good. Send the stable boy up with the bag they should find attached to the saddle and I want to see the cook this moment! Tell him he’s to come with all the herbs he has, especially the chamomile. What are you waiting for.” Jaskier knew he was way much more commanding and gruff than his servants were usually used to, but this was maybe a matter of life or death. The viscount emptied some pillowcases and stuffed them under the blood soaked doublet he’d used earlier. From what he had seen, the stabwound was deep. If it were more shallow, he would have sewn it, but at this point, that would only leave the internal injuries untreated. “Solga!” He called after the last chambermaid leaving the room they’ve prepared, “I want another man to go to Ansegis. Make sure the healer brings his apprentice and maybe the apothecarist too, there will be a lot of work needed here.” 

“That is a lot of attentiveness and care for a stranger appearing at our door,” Jaskier’s mother appeared in the doorway to comment. 

“It’s Geralt. Witcher Of Rivia..” The bard sighed exasperated, “I don’t suppose you would have finally listened to any of my so called rebellious-phase songs..”

“You’d be surprised,” the woman stepped in, looking concerned herself now, “what can I do to help?”

Tbc


	2. Black Light

Chapter 2: Black Light

Jaskier crept over slowly to the bed from his position by his writing desk, not sure if he’d really seen Geralt open his eyes or whether he’d even be a welcome sight for the Witcher. Despite having showed up at his door, the landowner wasn’t certain if the injuries the monster hunter suffered would somehow be blamed on him too. But it was more important now to care for Geralt’s wellbeing and he could be angry with the Witcher later. Jaskier found that Geralt’s eyes were indeed open, though he didn’t seem particularly aware of the world around him. His breaths however became heavier and his hand went to clutch his wounded abdomen. 

“Geralt?” The professor tried to get his attention with a soft and gentle voice, not wanting to startle him, but also weary. He could feel his heart clomping hard in his chest as the Witcher’s head slowly turned towards him, eyes clearly having some trouble refocusing. “It’s me, Jaskier. I’ve got some medicine here to ease the pain, it should be easier to administer it now that you’re awake.” He was coiffured like a nobleman, but it was all over the place like he didn’t care. 

The guest seemed to have trouble taking a big enough breath to talk as well. Whatever he was trying to say was unintelligible so Jaskier had no choice but to lean closer. It couldn’t have been the word sorry he was hearing, could it? “It’s alright, leave it for later. I’ll get the drops. We had to drip water and broth into your mouth too while you were unconscious,” the Viscount raised the Witcher’s head a little to put the vial to his mouth. 

The drops didn’t taste bad, more sweet than anything, which didn’t give Geralt much of a hope to their effectiveness but they did wet his throat and speaking became easier, “and for how long?”

“For how long have you been lying here? Nearly a week. There was a raging infection in your belly that the healers didn’t want to touch and saw no point to as they deemed it fatal, but I’ve told them not to treat you as they would a human because you’re not.” Jaskier wasn't sure if that came out more accusatory and offensive than anything else. He didn’t want to sound like those ordinary villagers they both remembered well. “We should get some soup into you too,” he concentrated on the task at hand, “or maybe a grape or two.”

Geralt didn’t feel hungry. More like weighed down and weightless at the same time. And definitely still in pain down where the food was going to go. He shook his head, “any other kind of medicine?”

Jaskier frowned, “it’s the best we have around here. Sent a letter to Yennefer but I don’t even know if she’s still at the same address. Food should help though, it’s fish soup, quite restorative. Fresh, cause we’re close to the coast here.” Jaskier’s eyes were apologetic, “I just had some myself,” he reached over to his mable desk for the bowl and drew half a spoonful to Geralt’s mouth, “good, right?”

Geralt let out a gruff moan. It did taste good indeed and was still a bit warm, but he wasn’t sure of eating much of it, not when his stomach was on fire as it was. And he didn’t like being cosseted. Jaskier was quite keen on feeding him though, so he forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls reluctantly till the bard realised himself that it might not be such a good idea, “what’s wrong?” He set the utensils down again and froze, posture like a peacock’s pose. Viscount habits. 

“You didn’t let me bloody die.”

Jaskier looked confused, “you couldn’t have wanted me to? Since you came here for help.” Still, he cleaned the guest’s face up with his monogrammed cambric handkerchief.

“I didn’t come here. Fact.” 

“And yet here we,” Jaskier said sourly, “pray tell how you would explain that.”

“It was just Roach.” Geralt was too fatigued to elaborate, “so you don’t need to take care of me.” 

The poet fixed him with an exasperated stare, “don’t you think I would have tended to anyone who fell unconscious at my door?”

“Not personally yourself, no.”

“Well, it’s not like you deserve it, that’s for sure, not with the way you have treated and accused me. You’re lucky I have a sense of responsibility in me and love left towards you.” There, he said it like he had always wanted to. It wasn’t even hard. It’s not that the incident didn’t define his life and ultimately changed his decisions over his own future, but at the moment he was more worried about his friend’s health. “Can you think of anything else we could help you with? I didn’t dare give you any of your potions as I could not see ones I knew for certain would be effective with a wound like that.”

“No. There are none of those. I ran out.”

“Maybe Yennefer has some if she pleases.”

“You shouldn’t have called her.” Geralt’s eyes drifted towards the window.

“Say on, did you fall out with her too again?”

Geralt ignored the question, “is her arrival imminent?” He spat.

“I have no idea. You would think, with portals, she would have no problems.” 

“Fuck. That’s that. Maybe I should go then,” Geralt made to sit, stopped by his own gasp and paling further. 

“You’re in no state,” Jaskier confirmed, sizing him up slowly to see if he really was all that much better all of a sudden, “you want me to show you?” He gestured towards the bandages. 

“Hmm, on you go,” the Witcher gave his consent, wincing already as the younger man touched his abdomen, however gentle the bard was peeling away the padding from the hole in his stomach. “We need to change this anyway, and I will,” Jaskier threw the bloodied dressings away and stood to gather supplies from the table. 

Geralt raised his head a little, only getting a little peek before having to lie back down again. It was as if moving any of his stomach muscles would have suddenly been forbidden by a curse. But it was enough to see that the wound was still very inflamed, the whole area an unhealthy colour. “You see why we might need the mage?” The troubadour cleaned away as much pus as it was possible from the outside, making Geralt see stars.

“Maybe a mage. Not the mage, our mage,” the guest hissed his frustration. 

“I have indeed made alternative plans for that in case Yennefer doesn’t turn up. But we both know she’s the best at these kinds of things.”

Biting his lips, Geralt’s eyes fluttered as he tried to force himself not to pass out from the pain while Jaskier finished up what he was doing. “It’s better if you rest,” the bard looked at him worriedly, “by the Great Sun, I sincerely advise you to wait.”

“It’s not right, burdening you with my presence now, my needs,” the mutant made another attempt to sit up, with more success this time, though he only made it up to lean on his elbows.

Jaskier rolled his eyes and took some pleasure out of being able to push the Witcher back down easily with one hand, “frankly, no, it’s not right, not without an apology, but let’s just see how you feel after another kip.” Geralt didn’t have the strength to argue. He made an attempt at gathering his thoughts, but meanwhile as he tried to do so, he fell asleep again. 

Tbc


	3. Immigrant Effort

Chapter 3: Immigrant Effort

Geralt was surprised by how clear his head felt when he woke up next. He remembered what had happened, where he was and how his injuries should be affecting him, except that they didn’t as much. His stomach hurt, sure, when he made to get up, but he felt energised and reasonably well. “Yennefer said you should still rest for a few days after you wake up,” Jaskier informed him from his desk, clearly busy working on something again, “and that there’s a high chance of relapse.”

That got Geralt’s attention. “Fuck. Yen is here?” 

Jaskier waved him off, “she portalled away. Something about an urgent business to do with levitating fathoms in Velen. But she did make a detour just for you beforehand.”

“Hm. Is she..”

“Coming back? Don’t think so,” Jaskier frowned. Everything was still about the mage for Geralt and that did still hurt. “Not if you’re not back at death’s door.”

“She only came because you asked..” The Witcher saddened. 

“Since when are the witch and I such buddies? No, obviously she came for you.”

“Wait. Did she ask for anything in return for the favour?”

Jaskier shook his head, considering prudently, “no, but she did say we should pay her a visit in Melitele soon.”

“Where are my clothes, Jaskier?” 

“They weren’t savable I’m afraid. You might have to look like a nobleman for a while. You should be able to choose from some of my father’s old garments once you’re able to move around if that is alright.” 

“I’m able,” Geralt was pretty confident as he made to stand, but his legs didn’t seem to want to hold him, “how long was I in bed for?”

“An additional few days after the last time we spoke. You needed the healing sleep. There’s no need to rush. I’m not planning on throwing an invalid out,” Jaskier pushed his chest out proudly, huffily. 

“I’m hardly invalid, Lord Viscount What’s-Your-Name.”

“Even so. You hungry?”

Geralt rubbed a hand over his stomach probingly. He wasn’t trusting it not to hurt, especially if he was going to eat. “Bread? Fish pate? Honey?” Jaskier was appearing to be the best host, pulling at his doublet to seem even more well dressed. 

“I have already inconvenienced you enough,” the Witcher finally found his legs. The whole situation was embarrassing. Why did the mare bring him here? He couldn’t possibly demand any more help from the entertainer given how much he did him wrong. “I should have some spare clothes with Roach as usual,” he used the blanket as cover, but his unsteady feet got tangled into them.

“Geralt, please!” Jaskier had to make a quick jump to catch his once travel companion from falling, then rearranged his hold so that he could bundle the limp body reasonably gently back onto the bed. “Quit it, tough guy.” The bard sounded serious and imperative. 

The Witcher’s annoyed grunt over his own helplessness turned into a moan as he grappled with his nausea, “what fun. I thought you said Yen healed me?” 

“There was a lot of internal damage. She kept you from dying, but you will need to wait while your body does the rest.”

“I don’t know..” Geralt shifted, his abdomen clearly giving him discomfort till he readjusted his position, “I don’t know how to thank you for letting me stay.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “Seriously?” He couldn’t believe Geralt addressed him like he would give his gratitude to a stranger, “I don’t want your thanks. Though it surprises me to the same extent as your foolish scorn does.”

“I will get out your hair as soon as I can then,” the Witcher blurted out and let his head fall into the pillows in exhaustion from the talking and attempt to get up.

“No. You won’t. I’m not taking Yennefer’s wrath when finding out I didn’t let you recover properly,” Jaskier played the cold mannered man as well, as if his feelings didn’t play a part. “Even if at this point with your tirades, I’d rather just throw you out,” he gave an intentionally loud, protestful, angry sigh for show and glared at the incapacitated Witcher, mainly cause he could, without major conseqences for once. 

“Hmm,” Geralt signalled he understood, along with the fact that as much as he tried, he could not get up at this point. Perhaps that was Yennefer’s doing too, making sure he was forced to slow down. He groaned his dissent, admiring the tapestry, the interaction having worn him out. Being a Witcher, he also knew when he was beaten, when his body really needed the rest. He turned his head sheepishly, embarrassed and had to hiss at the pull that it caused in his belly. 

Jaskier frowned, involuntarily already starting to feel for him again. With how much and for how long he’d been in love with the superhuman, it was hard to ignore Geralt’s suffering. “Yennefer’s left a vial here, for when you’re in pain.” He didn’t wait for a response, simply reached out for the item and leaned over to hold the Witcher’s back of the head up for a few drops he dosed him with. “You should feel a little better soon,” he slowly ambled back to his original place from where he kept an eye on his guest, mentally smacking himself for how quickly he’d forgiven him for his latest hurtful words. 

“You should say it.” Geralt’s tone was flat, demoralised when he regained his voice. He wanted to avoid being stuck here, and the reason was that it was uncomfortable when he knew he was in the wrong, but essentially incapable of an apology. “What’s on our chest. Say it,” he pressed his lips together, defiant. 

“I might naturally be inclined so,” Jaskier shrugged dismissively, “but will leave it till you’re feeling better.” 

“How are you so forgiving? Am I hearing right? It isn’t usually the nature of ordinary humans.” Geralt still appeared petulant, though it was only a wall he’d put up so he didn’t seem exposed. 

“Who said I forgave you?” The nobleman snapped, then left his mouth open for a moment as a thought occurred to him. Didn’t that mean Geralt admitted there was something to be forgiven and he would maybe apologise? Jaskier’s eyes became alive immediately and he started to study Geralt’s countenance in more detail with curiosity. Satisfied with the expression he found on the Witcher’s face, he finally gave a capricious shrug, “but I’m sincerely amenable to do so, given the right circumstances, you know?” He sighed, knowing himself how keen he really was on Geralt’s company. If that was all the apology he was going to get, he would probably still be open to reestablishing their relationship. Hopeless he was and way too obsessed, but those were the facts. 

Geralt made an attempt to hold his gaze, think up a response that was somewhere in the middle between admitting fault and keeping up the appearances of the toughnut he was, but his eyelids were too heavy and they kept closing no matter how many times he shook himself awake during the conversation and tried to concentrate on the shiny golden threads in the tapestry to keep him awake. “Jaskier..” He muttered. 

The bard grabbed hold of his chair and pulled it over from the desk to sit on it by the bed, “it’s alright Geralt, we’ll talk and clarify things later,” he reached to hold the other’s hand. 

Tbc


	4. Cruise Control

Chapter 4: Cruise Control

When Jaskier entered the guest room the next morning, having been outside to confer with one of the courtiers who stopped by the estate to get his opinion on a council matter, he found Geralt sitting up with his legs on the floor, bending forward and hissing as he fought against the pain to be able to stand up. “No, no, no you don’t,” Jaskier leapt to ease him back down, “you’re too ill for that.” 

Geralt tried to swat him away, but that only made his belly hurt more. He grimaced and had to squeeze his eyes shut till the aftershocks of the smarting passed. When he opened them again, Jaskier was watching him with clear concern. “I don’t see you healing as well as you usually do either, Witcher. I think your fever went up again too it seems.”

The points made were good ones and worthy of contemplating, but Geralt had to admit he was too tired even for that bit of thinking. That was annoying, but the cool cloth Jaskier placed on his forehead in a swift moment was however very welcome. “Mmm thank you.”

“When will you recover you think?”

“I know not as quickly as you might hope,” the grey haired man muttered. 

“Would you stop with that nonsense Geralt! Just because you broke my heart, it doesn’t mean I need to come down to your level and wish you harm on you in any way.”

The hunter wrapped a hand round his bandages, distracted by a jolt of pain and the wave of dizziness that came with it despite his horizontal state. “Hey easy,” Jaskier felt the need to adjust the washcloth on Geralt’s head with a gentle touch, taking unruly strands of hair out of the way as well. He turned back to the bowl on the nightstand and produced another washcloth that he placed on the witcher’s chest inside the opening of the frilly shirt he had been put into, “this will cool you down a bit and you’ll be as good as new,” he heartened, though not really believing it himself. “What do you think of a little bread? Some apple pie perhaps? I’d recommend it, it’s one of the very few things I missed about this place.”

“Not a good idea for my stomach just now,” Geralt stated blandly, though his eyes were half pleading with the other not to force anything down his throat. 

“Didn’t think so,” Jaskier sighed and made a round of dipping the cloths into the cold water, wringing them out and replacing them, noting how quickly they were drying. “I do not think this will work either. It’s not enough. I might need to undress you again and cover more ground of your body.” The bard had to urge himself to keep calm and not panic. 

“It is helping a lot,” Geralt was thankful for the coolness, especially against his aching head. 

“All the same,” the viscount thought about moving him, but then again the clothes he’d put Geralt in were old, so he resorted just to cut the shirt off him again. He was surprised to notice during his ministrations how much the warrior’s skin was radiating heat and how shallow his breathing was. “What’s going on? This doesn’t happen to you. You never relapse like this. Well, Geralt?”

The Witcher had trouble focusing, but he persevered till he met the bard’s eyes, “a witcher’s luck will always run out some time. You know the rest.” 

The poet shook his head, but resumed using the cloth to cool the wolf’s body down. “And where pray tell were you trying to get to in this condition?”

“To find you..” The Witcher admitted after a moment’s thought. He almost forgot himself.

The famous Viscount’s head snapped up, startled by the revelation, “did you need something?” 

“Yes,” Geralt measured out a breath while taking his time to get himself together for what he was about to say. “I begin to understand that I’ve said some things to you. I'd like it not to be the last significant thing you remember about me after I’m dead.” His voice was shaky and muted, almost like whispering.

It was a cardinal admission from the witcher, but Jaskier had other priorities and he stated them seriously, “then let’s just make sure you survive.”

“No. I want you to hear me out now.” The swordsman was not really capable of thinking about anything outside of his regrets.

“Now who’s cocky again,” Jaskier bristled before pausing and putting a hand on Geralt’s arm to encourage him, “out with it I suppose.”

“I want you to know that I did not mean a word of it,” Geralt reached to hold his stomach again as speaking so much didn’t do the ache there any favours.

“It’s not like they made any sense to start with, did they.” 

“That is because they don’t. It wasn’t exactly a completely conscious reaction, but the choice was. I wanted to take part in no relationship as they hurt and so I pushed you away. I had a lot of time to think about it, figure it out and I’m sorry for wounding you in the process.” The hunter wasn’t even sure if his words were intelligible as it was a struggle for him to stay conscious. 

“And now? You still want no part in relationships? Is that why you didn’t want Yennefer’s help? Lack of faith and hope?”

“I didn’t want her help because she’s probably reluctant to help, as are you. With good cause. Fuck it, at least you should be.” The Witcher blinked, forcing himself to keep from passing out again as he still had important things to cover before. 

“I’m not. This is what friends are for, they aren’t for hurting each other. Besides, this is not the time for blame games.” From Geralt’s confounded look, Jaskier understood that his companion found it hard to grasp why he wasn’t blamed more. 

“They’re too hard, relationships,” Geralt settled on the sheepish admission as he didn’t want to reveal anymore of his truths because any admittance of their nuisance quality in his eyes would just hurt the other man more. 

Jaskier regarded him contemplatively, “I’d say we’ll talk about this when you’re better but I’m pretty sure you’d either avoid the subject or simply disappear. So you’re maybe right, it’s now or never,” he took a pause to gather his thoughts, “I understand that even after all these years, you have shortcomings in social interaction and emotional perspicaciousness. You should know that I don’t blame you for them. I see the reasons, you can’t help it. To be honest, I was surprised you have enough emotional self-awareness to understand what happened yourself. You’re only asking for forgiveness because you think you might die..”

“It’s not like that,” the patient interrupted, “you deserve my respect and apologies. At least that.” It may have not been as convincing as it would have been if he could keep his eyes open, but his ragged breathing had already convinced Jaskier that they shouldn’t even be having this conversation. Geralt’s whole world was nothing but pain, physical and emotional and he was not against having a break from it while sleeping, or for good by dying. At this point, he didn’t even care which one. 

“I accept your apology. It’s alright. We will speak of the future later.” The Witcher’s struggles did not go unnoticed by Jaskier. He sat closer to his guest, hoping that the physical comfort of holding his hand will calm him enough to let his body go into the deep sleep it needed. “You’re safe here with me. I won’t let anything happen to you.” The Viscount meant it too. He was a well educated man and had thought of backup ways to summon Yennefer if it was necessary for the eventuality of cases like this. For now, he would stay put and monitor Geralt’s every breath, twitch and moan, the same way he’d been doing from the moment Roach dropped her rider at his gates. “Tell me if you need anything. I will be here right beside you.”

Tbc


	5. Steed Confidentiality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s no life for a Witcher.

Chapter 5: Steed Confidentiality

“I’m not comfortable with the idea of you leaving tomorrow,” Jaskier found Geralt in the stables, tending to his trusted steed. “I’m pretty certain you’re not well enough to spend the whole day riding and more.”

“If I stay here one more week, there might not be enough time for taking another contract before winter.”

“So what? You can stay here for the whole winter, or longer if you wish. It’s not a problem at all.”

“Oh, is that why the other courtiers kept a wide berth from me for the last three weeks? Not to mention all your servants.”

“They’ll get used to you. Or if not, who cares about that.”

“You’ll probably care when you get invited less and don’t get given any dignified official functions that come with an income.”

Jaskier shook his head, “you make me sound so boring. It’s not that bad, Geralt, and rather handy having all the comforts provided for you for a while without having to take them.” He came closer, idly stroking Roach’s muzzle.

“It’s no life for a Witcher. And it’s no life for the adventurous bard I once knew.” He meant it as a compliment but perhaps it sounded the exact opposite, he wasn’t sure.

“That life..” Jaskier mused, “bloody hell, I would give this one up in a heartbeat for what I thought we once had..my mistake.”

“My mistake.” Geralt stopped brushing the horse so that he could step over to the bard, “you were not wrong. I don’t know about you, but I don’t get so close to people often. I should have cherished the experience and for that, I am sorry. We could start again if you come with me.”

“First of all, I can’t just leave the estate. Things change. A whole lot of people depend on me.” 

“Well, your mother seems capable enough. Hasn’t she been practically running everything for a few years when your father was ill.”

“Yes, but she will not be keen on doing that..”

“I will never treat you that lowly again as I have, if stating that helps,” Geralt offered his last olive branch, wincing as his wound stretched when he ambled back to Roach.

“I’m more likely to come with you because I don’t trust you not to fall off the horse right now before admitting even to yourself that some rest is due. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“So just a short trip?” The Witcher turned to face him. He would take whatever he was going to get and so he didn’t mind the excuse Jaskier came up with as either way, it was happy news.

“I can explain a short one away.” The famous poet sighed in relief at the idea of finding a loophole himself.

“Right. We’re starting off tomorrow morning then.”

“Oh, I need to go pack things! But can I bring two horses?” The nobleman was immediately excited, his intonation turning into lyrical rhythm as soon as his enthusiasm kicked in. 

“Jaskier, no way!” Geralt frowned in annoyance, “your Pegasus will be aplenty. It’s a good horse.”

“Right, back to normality then. I’ll manage. What about Melitele? I promised Yennefer we would visit her soon. Maybe you can spend the winter there?” Jaskier was keen on having Geralt somewhere where he knew he would be safe and well taken care of. 

“Hmm.” There was a noticeable change in the mood of the Witcher at that mention, “you think you can force me? That she can force me?”

“Don’t you want to see her? I swear to you, I will never understand this cat and mouse game’s purpose you’re playing.”

“Mhm, no indeed.” Geralt scowled.

“Never mind, will convince you to go later when possible,” the nobleman planned. For now, he was ecstatic. He had to talk to his mother and stay strong and resolute doing it, pack and secretly make sure Geralt had everything he might necessitate in case he needed to be taken care of again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Tbc


	6. A Matter of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and your beasts worship. That I don’t understand either.”
> 
> “I and my witchers worship, more like,” Jaskier muttered to himself as he mounted his horse to follow in tow

“What is an ulfhedinn doing so far out from Skellige?” Geralt stood in front of the notice board at the gates of Dorian, “none I’ve ever heard about did ever venture as far.”

“I’d rather you went after something less dangerous, like an endrega or maybe a drowner, as problematic as they may be. Only a few daring warriors in history have managed to defeat an ulfhedinn, and each of them is commemorated in ballads as a hero to this day. Is that not true?”

“Dammit, stop worrying, you can see I’m fine,” the white haired man grumbled, “take note please.”

“Is that why you slunk off last night to be sick in private? I am taking note! You underestimate me if you didn’t think I would notice. You took a long time too till you were confident enough to come back!”

“Professional hazard. There will be plenty of time to rest in Kaer Morhen later,” the Witcher turned his head away, rejecting the conversation. 

“Not if you’re already dead to start with. Be reasonable, Geralt,” Jaskier blinked nervously, with a sense of impending doom in his guts. 

“I need to earn some coin, for supplies for the winter. I can’t show up empty-handed, there are standards! It is expected everybody brings something and it is the only way it works. I can’t very well achieve that by killing a simple endrega. Any ordinary soldier can do that.”

“Very well, very well. But is that all? Because I’ve got plenty of coin I can part with. Is that not what they are for?”

“I’d advise you maybe not to advertise that so loud.”

“As you please. Listen then. Could send some supplies up the mountain too if that would hurt your precious pride less.” 

“That is not how witchers go live, you know that better than anyone. What else would you like to hear?”

“Would there be any circumstances you’d accept it in? Or if your brothers would, I don’t care which Witcher. And that would be without anything that I would expect in return. Not after your child surprise fiasco for sure.”

Geralt didn’t reward that with an answer, “it’s almost dark so I’ll better go find the ulfhedinn before that. The ad seems new and it gives some directions too. Sounds like a voref.”

“Voref? What’s that? Never heard of it. Is that worse or better than an ordinary pack of ulfhedinn?”

“An older and more knowledgeable specimen. Not many of them make it to that age.”

“Like you then?” Jaskier jested with one of his characteristic, insolent smiles, “isn’t the ulfhedinn a kind of wolf anyway? You wouldn’t want to kill something that’s kind of your kind? Or akin to my kind, for that matter.” The bard would try everything to deter him, with no regard to how unlikely it sounded. 

“You and your beasts worship. That I don’t understand either.”

“I and my witchers worship, more like,” Jaskier muttered to himself as he mounted his horse to follow in tow, still wildly gesticulating his meaning and he did not refrain from bursting into song haphazardly as usual either, “my heart is not warmed by the heat of the sun,

It must be thus, for fire still smoulders in me tall 

That eternal fire, it comes from wonder.”

“Same thing,” the Witcher said calmly.

“No, it’s not,” the troubadour groaned, “don’t we need a full moon for these plans to come to fruition?” 

“We’re lucky there isn’t one. The creatures are faster and more potent then. And you’re not coming,” he stressed.

“Don’t insult me, Witcher. I already know you can at times earn more in three days than I’ve earned in my whole life by singing. So is there any particular reason you’re intending to face one of the most dangerous creatures right now out of all times? Sounds pretty suicidal to me. Are you suicidal? Is that it?”

“I am a Witcher indeed. There’s your answer. Did you not read how many people disappeared around here? Did you see the reward?”

“I can handle your devil’s puffballs,” the bard realised he had to give in and let the older man do his job so he should may as well be useful, “don’t you remember how I always need to be near the action and the excitement. I can’t very well compose a ballad based on reports. Well, I mean I could, I’ve proved that, but it’s not the same. Less fire if you know what I mean. Less accuracy too as you will attest to.”

“No. I’ve had enough of all this. It’s too dangerous for you.”

“‘Oooh, bloody hell!” Jaskier yelled, “ you know what? You can cast Yrden around me like we used to do it back in the day when I was less experienced. You’re strong enough for that, right?”

“Of course. But I do not want to be responsible for your demise. Beware, you stay back. Starting the latest as soon as I get the scent.” It was sort of a compromise. 

“I brought moon dust too.” Jaskier also disregarded the other’s words, “in very satisfactory quantities.”

“Moon dust? How do you have moon dust?”

“Coin, remember? A certain lady from a house of ill repute who shall remain nameless passed it on.”

“Florina?”

“I said no names!” The bard’s look gave him away though. 

“Good, moon dust is quite something to have,” Geralt grunted, “keep it just in case you will still need to defend yourself.” 

“You mean if you fail? No way I’m taking that chance.” Jaskier wanted to sound just as firm as he was used to hearing from Geralt. “You might have been able to order me around in the past, but no more. I’m staying with you.”

“It is for your own good, don’t you argue with…” The Witcher didn’t wait for compliance anymore, he simply cast a mild Aard that spooked Jaskier’s horse. 

By the time the nobleman got the animal under control and he could look around, Geralt was gone. “I can’t believe he just did that to a horse, an animal he so loves! Well, of course, you’re not Roach,” Jaskier petted his steed in sympathy.

Tbc


	7. Volcanic Puff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher used Yrden several times, a clear sign that he was defending himself more than he was attacking.

Chapter 7: Vulcanic Puff

Jaskier might not have had excellent tracking skills, but he could see the brief flicker of the flames of Igni over and over from a fair distance and now that some tree had caught fire as well in the melee, he had an exact location as a destination to head to. Geralt should have chained him to a post if he wanted to avoid his bard getting involved. Ulfhedinn were no small foes, but Jaskier usually stayed close by during a fight, any fight. His excuse has always been getting the story straight and some of his reasoning has been to provide assistance if needed, maybe not so much during the scrimmage itself, but the aftermath. It has came in handy for that reason a good few times, even when Geralt was at his best.

The advantage to his appearance was also that not much was expected of him in terms of combat, especially as far as the beasts were concerned. The two ulfhedinn engaged with Geralt didn’t pay Jaskier any heed either as he climbed an adjacent tree. He had packed more than he had with him before on their travels, including his crossbow. The viscount reached over to set his arrow on fire on the burning tree and released it into the back of the ulfhedinn trying to pin down Geralt. It made the creature jump away and try to yank the shaft out from a part of his body it could not reach. Jaskier could see now that Geralt was bleeding from what looked like claw marks, large gashes that would probably not pose much danger, but would be rather painful for a while. The smaller ulfhedinn didn’t give Geralt any breathing space either, its attack was vicious and the Witcher barely escaped a dual overhead swipe by ducking. 

Not being able to dislodge the bolt, the other ulfhedinn was now on fire itself and was enraged, coming for Jaskier in flames as it was, so the other arrow he had readied for the smaller specimen had to be now used to take out the attacker. His arms were shaking a little and his balance on the branch was precarious but his recent boredom at court did bear the fruits of him practising his aim for something to do and his fiery projectile landed in the targeted ulfhedinn’s chest. It didn’t look like it was dead yet, but it was incapacitated and possibly half way there. 

Of course, that course of actions didn’t do Geralt many favours. The fallen werewolf’s mate, possibly in the consort sense, did not take well to her partner’s fate, went berserk and attacked with increased strength. She also made a high pitched sound, most likely calling out for the help of any other ulfhedinn that may be in the area. The fight had to be done with, quickly and Jaskier needed to get Geralt out of the forest as soon as possible. Not being able to see the opponents well from his perch, the bard jumped down and ran the silver sword lying on the ground through the scorching animal. It was the only way to make sure it was dead, at which point he realised that Geralt didn’t have the weapon necessary to kill his adversary. There was no time to waste. The Witcher used Yrden several times, a clear sign that he was defending himself more than he was attacking. The ulfhedinn however saw Jaskier as a threat now as well given what he’s done and leapt suddenly a fair distance into his direction. It was his survival instinct that had him throw the sword over to Geralt before using another arrow to slow down the monster and now with her lagging, the Witcher had the chance to deal out as many blows of his sword as it was necessary to defeat the animal. “You’ll have to claim the coins,” Geralt grunted with some reluctance. He didn’t seem happy with that outcome, “it was the bigger one the ad was about.” He did chop off the monster’s head however as he knew Jaskier would be too squeamish to do so, then straightened with a groan, “since when did you become such a witcher impersonator.”

“Ah, really? I’ll have you know if you haven’t known before that I’ve had decades of training, at least in theory and in the form of watching you, which tells me that perhaps we need to go and head for civilization without delay, don’t you reckon?” Jaskier stammered slightly, kind of shaken by his own actions and the situation he had willingly put himself in.

“Not before taking some of the hide,” Geralt chopped off a bit for a future potion brusquely. 

“Hey you, are you alright?” Jaskier nodded at the other’s injuries marring his torso while tidying up his own clothing with visible disdain of the newest stains, then twisted his neck and shoulders that got too tense from having to be used in a fight in a way they weren’t usually. “Bloody hell, we have quite the ride to town ahead of us I think,” he hissed his unhappiness with the prospect of the night forest with ulfhedinn on the loose tracking them.

“Seems to me there won’t be any place left for scars at this rate,” Geralt patted himself down.

Jaskier didn’t think much to shed his doublet and tuck it into Geralt’s breeches gently, with the belt holding the cloth against his newly mangled abdomen. The touch made the Witcher halt and he winced, losing his balance a little, enough to have to reach out for a tree trunk. It perturbed Jaskier too as the injuries didn’t seem that bad, at least by Geralt’s standards and in other circumstances he would have just carried on. The bard whisted for Pegasus to come running and thankfully Roach got the memo too by the looks of it. “Indeed. Am I hearing right, you agree with me?” He muttered, “so now let’s get out of this balderdash situation, my friend, isn’t that the plan?” Jaskier pulled his hood up, even more keen than a minute ago given Geralt’s state.

“You’re a bit overdue getting afraid.” *

“I’m quite attached to my fear, thank you very much. How else should it be? That human emotion tends to keep me alive.”

“One moment,” Geralt made sure he sacked the monster head and attached it to Pegasus’ saddle, “all yours.” He was miffed by the outcome. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll take some of its saliva glands for potions later,” he mounted haltingly, taking a brief tick longer to get his equilibrium than Jaskier was used to before taking on a stony countenance.

“Eww, stop reminding me what that looks like and tell me when you’re about to do it. Gore I do despise, you should know as much. I do hope though it will be worth it to look inside there to sample,” Jaskier cleared his throat to get rid of the bad taste of imagining the moment. Sighing in worry over the paleness of his companion, he didn’t dare to gallop too hard and not notice if his companion fell off. It was what he was there for after all. 

“The mutagens will be worth it. I’m running out,” the Witcher explained as he made sure the swords were secure enough on his back and he decided on his own, quicker pace, though Roach was smart enough not to follow the instructions fully. 

“You might need to compose a ballad about yourself at this rate,” Geralt admitted. He felt pride more than he was annoyed.

“Ho ho, I’d better, because if you compose it, it won’t be pretty, just all swearing and grunts,” the poet laughed, a lot more at ease with making fun of him than he had been on their previous travels.

Tbc


	8. Beer Parlour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It does hurt,” Geralt conceded, mostly so he could prove Jaskier he changed and was ready to let him in

Chapter 8: Beer Parlour

The fireplace took a while to heat up the entire room, as small as the guest chamber was that they were given at the inn. Jaskier busied himself with adding more wood to it, getting their coins and late night dinner, insisting he would take care of the horses while Geralt rested. When he came back into the finally lukewarm room, Geralt seemed already asleep. The witcher had taken his boots and armour off, but was otherwise still lounging in his bloodied clothes. Jaskier shook his head and gently nudged Geralt’s shoulder, “don’t get startled,” the minstrel tossed his bonnet aside, “I’m just going to check on your wounds.”

“They are superficial, I checked them myself. Nothing like my previous injury,” Geralt said calmly.

“Alright, but I’d still like to clean them. There’s no need to aim for an infection if we don’t have to,” the poet held, “unless you prefer it.”

Geralt grunted his discord over that, along with the smarting that moving to give Jaskier access to his front caused. Jaskier pulled the candelabrum closer and gently pulled away the remains of his doublet he had used earlier to stem the blood flow. To his relief, it didn’t feel as soggy as it looked, in fact it stuck firmly to the Witcher’s skin in a number of places where the blood had dried completely, “sorry,” he never liked causing his friend any discomfort, “you might not get new scars then. With your constitution, it’s possible that these will heal fully.” He glanced over to the site of the previous injuries, those on the other hand still left a mark and were not healed to an extent Jaskier was happy with. The bard sighed his discontent, “listen. you’re lucky it wasn’t the same place.” He took the cloth from the water hanging above the fire, wrang it out, went down on his knees by the bed for better access and started on his task of washing round the gash first before he went any deeper. 

Lax under his skilled fingers, Geralt was taken by surprise when Jaskier touched a more sensitive part and absentmindedly gave a small hiss. “Just a moment, sorry,” the bard started to hurry so he wasn’t causing him more pain, leaning closer, even more focussed than before. “It’s my least favourite part of you being a Witcher, having to see you hurt so thus, this often.”

“And yet you would certainly have no interest in me if I wasn’t a Witcher. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t know you were one when I sat down by your table at our first meeting at the inn.”

“Not till a moment in..” Geralt settled the matter.

Jaskier made an exasperated sound and rolled his eyes, “well then, still, it gave you no right to say those intentionally hurtful words.”

“But I thought we were over that.” In truth, Geralt was happy to be distracted from the physical discomfort. 

“No one’s perfect,” Jaskier shrugged, not missing Geralt’s lipbite and his clenching of fists, “as I was saying, how I am trying to get over it.” 

It took the Witcher a moment to be able to calm himself down and till he could force himself to relax, which also didn’t get lost on the bard, no matter how composed Geralt seemed to an ordinary onlooker. “Do you know what? I wish you would let your guard down around me more. There’s no shame in being human in itself of course.”

“You’d rather I screamed in pain?” The monster hunter snapped, glancing up to look the other in the eyes in accusation. 

“No. But of course not,” Jaskier secured a padded bit of cloth against the wound now that he was finished cleaning it and placed a comforting hand on his companion’s arm. Geralt’s eyes closed, as if appreciating the gesture, so the bard didn’t expect him to speak again. 

“It does hurt,” Geralt conceded, mostly so he could prove Jaskier he changed and was ready to let him in, but he had to look away and rub his brow, feeling a cloud of shame.

“Anyway, should I put some of the balms on the wound?” The poet kept his hand on Geralt’s arm for emotional support. 

“No, the other wound,” Geralt brought his hand atop it, “just to be sure.”

Jaskier stiffened at the admission. He didn’t expect it and also, the full weight of it became more real now that Geralt has said it. He sighed, “we should really go see Yen, Geralt,” he batted his pleading blue eyes on him, “maybe that’s what she meant by making me promise we visit. She’d be worried about you too.”

“Hm yes, perhaps..” It was the best answer he was going to get from the stubborn mule of a Witcher.

“Cheers, good! Yeah, don’t forget you agreeing to it in the morning,” Jaskier climbed next to him onto the bed.

“What are you doing??” The Witcher had to scoot a bit over to give him space.

“What does it look like? I’m going to take care of you. If you haven’t noticed, ‘tis so that my servants aren’t around to keep an eye on you tonight in case you get unwell again or need something. I want to be there for you.” 

“Oh. Sorry. You shouldn’t have to leave your comforts for my sake,” Geralt closed his eyes, uneasy.

“Oooh, I had been looking for an excuse for months. I probably would have surely taken on another teaching position somewhere if you didn’t come and would have taken it from there.”

“You should do what you want, that’s how you always wanted it,” the Witcher pushed the blanket over so Jaskier could make use of it too, “you have no obligations towards me.” 

“Bloody hell, did it not occur to you that this is what I want?” The troubadour groaned.

“It didn’t seem like that when I arrived to your estate.”

“No. I..maybe I’ve gone mad, but I am seriously thinking of forgiving you, dammit.”

Geralt looked sheepish. He averted his eyes to the ceiling and put a hand atop of Jaskier’s on his arm. “We’re alright, Geralt. Just be quiet and sleep now because I’m packing you up for Yennefer in the morning,” the bard took charge again and found no objections this time.

Tbc


	9. Renegade Dulia

Chapter 9: Renegade Dulia

Geralt had to admit, that travelling with the Viscount of Letterhove as opposed to Jaskier, the bard had its perks. It wasn’t just that they were offered better lodgings, supplies and subsistence, but there were also several merchants and other townsfolk of high standing everywhere the Viscount apparently had open accounts with, so most of the time, no actual coins were needed. Even so, the trek to Melitele’s Temple had been a trek, even with Geralt accepting longer lies and stays at every inn for rest. At this rate, there was no way they’d make it to Kaer Morhen till winter, not unless one of the mages at the temple could offer them a teleport. The Witcher was adamant they send a letter up to Vesemir stating so, claiming it had been a tradition amongst the few remaining Witchers so their father figure would not worry too much. With the side quest to find a rider to deliver this post, it was already actually snowing on the path to Melitele, quite deep too with hardly anyone using the route to Ellander after the cold set in. 

Jaskier had purchased a blanket for each horse, furry ones at that, hoping that Geralt would use one given that there was nowhere to pack it up for during the ride and seeing his example. Roach and Pegasus seemed thankful enough, and Jaskier’s heart filled with warmth when he saw Geralt finally pull it on one slow paced trudge. He took it as a positive sign first, but then he started to contemplate whether it was a symptom of his friend not feeling well. Geralt was too quiet, too withdrawn and Jaskier’s suspicions were founded when the grey wolf launched himself off the horse by the side of the road to be sick. 

The viscount and minstrel dropped himself down beside him, “oh no..” He readied the water container for him, not caring of his hat becoming askew, “how! I thought you were past this stage by now..”

“So did I..” Geralt tried to turn towards him and raise his head, but as soon as he opened his mouth to talk, puke gurgling in his throat gushed up, followed by another stream of spew when he leaned over to get rid of the previous rush. Swallowing down the foul taste didn’t do him many favours either. Now his stomach felt like churning atop of just feeling weird. He unbuckled his belt, presumably for comfort.

“So much for your dinner..my deepest sympathies,” Jaskier commented. Grimacing, he waited with the demijohn of water, standing by awkwardly while Geralt sputtered and spat. 

“How long is this going to go on for? I don’t know,” The Witcher lamented his own situation quietly. He was shaky and wishing to sit down on the ground more than anything, but wasn’t willing to give into the weaknesses of his body.

Jaskier was quick to realise his plight and reached to steady him immediately. The Witcher’s vomiting didn’t seem to want to come to an end either and it seemed to put a strain on his entire body. “Fuck. I want it to stop,” Geralt complained again angrily, “a sick Witcher is useless for everyone, no doubt,” he cleaned the cold sweat off his brow. Speaking proved a bad idea again and his stomach went into overdrive, trying to turn itself inside out with painful bouts that had him pant and mutter unintelligible curses. At least nobody else witnessed this apart from Jas.

“You have to stop fighting it Geralt. Just let it out. Come on a bit away now from the puddle, sit down on that boulder.”

“Hmm,” the warrior let himself be handled, moving hunched over and with difficulties to his sense of balance. Not as if he had any choice in the matter anyway. 

“The hell with it.” The poet was upset seeing him so unwell. “Do you think you’re done?” With great seriousness, Jaskier studied his exhausted countenance and trembling form. 

“Perhaps I should go to Kaer Morhen, ask to get put to death,” Geralt had his own thought process.

“Oho! Stop right there! What are you talking about!” The human could only think about protesting, scandalised so much his bonnet almost fell off. 

“I’m weak and my stomach is always sore. I thought it would get better, but it doesn’t. You proved yourself that I am more of a liability against monsters than I am of use. Far from what a Witcher is supposed to mean,” the grey wolf swallowed down the excess saliva that was gathering in his mouth, “I can barely hold myself up right now.”

“Bloody hell, I see. Alright, let’s deal with that first,” Jaskier took a good hold of the other man’s shoulders and guided him down onto the ground to sit against the aforementioned boulder that was there, then slid down himself next to his companion. Geralt didn’t oppose any of it, simply leaned his head back, closing his eyes with a moan. 

“You know, there was no need to go start talking so dark!” The bard protested now that he knew the Witcher wasn’t going to keel over, “surely Yennefer, Vesemir, Nenneke, a sorcerer or someone else can fix you! Dare I suggest a djinn if nothing else.”

“She couldn’t before and Yen’s the most powerful mage I’ve ever met,” Geralt stared ahead with abandonment, “who is better?” He dared Jaskier to contradict him. 

“She can try again and if not then give it time! A winter over in Kaer Morhen should be a long enough rest for it to take effect. Surely your brothers, they wouldn’t go suggesting over there what you just did!”

“Mm, no,” Geralt admitted with a tiny shake of the head as that was all he could afford movementwise, “not yet. But there is a reason why there are no crippled Witchers.”

“Don't you dare give a damn about that right now. Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we!” Jaskier swore to himself to protect his friend from potentially murderous peers as well if Geralt was in any way right, though he didn’t know if that would ever be an issue.“One thing at a time! We’re not far from the Temple. A warm, cosy bed by the fire sounds very inviting to me right now!” He hoped Geralt would agree.

“Mmm, I could just curl up here..” The Witcher wasn’t up for any kind of moving, “you can go ahead.”

“It’s snowing, Witcher! You could freeze to death,” the poet opened his eyes wide in shock, “and then who will I be listening to crying over their sad fate as a Witcher again!”

“No. Witchers don’t tend to get hypothermia.”

“The same as they don’t get sick?” Jaskier rolled his eyes, “I’m not going to leave you as it happens, forget it. Yes, yes, we can rest for a few moments if you want, but then up you get.”

“Fuck.” Geralt took internal stock of his levels of nausea, then decided that if Jaskier was going to push, this was the time as he was less likely to throw up so soon after his last bout of sickness. He took a deep breath and held his hand tightly against his stomach to keep it steady as he forced himself to his feet, “fuck it.” Startled, Jaskier jumped up and grabbed after him but it was not needed. Geralt was steady enough as he made his way over to his calmly waiting steed. 

“But walk or ride? Which one is better for you in your opinion just now do you think?” The bard could imagine either being the case for the Witcher at the moment for different reasons. 

“Need ground under my feet,” Geralt took the reins as he explained his preference in a tired voice. He felt the jolt of a twinge in his stomach every time he took a step, but it was nothing compared to the reverberations riding would have caused. Limbs and chest heavy, he hung his head and closed his eyes, trusting Roach and Jaskier beside him to lead him. 

Tbc


	10. Dust Routine

Chapter 10: Dust Routine

Jaskier’s only solace was knowing they were getting really close to the temple, otherwise he would have been very worried. While Geralt did not throw up again and he was still able to trudge on unaided on his own feet, he had said no word apart from the occasional ‘fuck’ and ‘hm’ despire Jaskier’s prompting, his hand never left his abdomen and his pallor equalled that of the snow’s.

“By Hell’s teeth, it’s ridiculous to have a portal opened so close to destination,” Yennefer complained as she walked out of it, “Iola saw you coming and Nenneke thought you might need some help,” she explained her appearance and moved immediately to catch Geralt as he was falling to his knees, his brave marching face he put on no longer needed. 

“Yennefer, what’s wrong with him?” The poet helped hold the Witcher up, “you’ve healed him, haven’t you? Why didn’t it work?”

“The head priestess got a theory about that,” the mage let Geralt lean on her as she led him towards the portal slowly and carefully while Jaskier took a hold of the horses’ reins, “Nenneke isn’t happy with Geralt that he didn’t come back for treatment despite her telling him a number of times that he was sick. What’s with the masochism?”

“Sick?” Jaskier was addled, “what kind of sick would that be?”

“She said it was hard to tell, but she’d been sensing it for years cause she knows Witchers and Geralt in particular especially well. That he’s not fully fit, reacts to elixirs badly, got a more rapid pulse rate than normal for his kind, the dilation of his eyes is slower, his reactions are delayed and can't get the simplest Signs right.”

“That’s not true though, is it? Because I didn’t notice such things.” Jaskier went through his recollections of Geralt fighting beasts.

“That’s because you couldn’t compare him to other Witchers and neither could I. There's something not quite right with him. To sum up, Nenneke can sense things like that. She feels that he’s ‘spinning around in some damned whirlpool, tangled up in a slowly tightening noose.’ I think those were her exact words.”

“Oh, that I happen to understand. It does feel like that sometimes, watching him try to deal with things, especially when it’s about people.” 

“Not the portal,” Geralt moaned his disagreement. 

“Because he gets sick going through the best of times,” Jaskier explained, “I tell you, even in full health.” 

“Either that, or we’ll have to support him to walk for the next hour, if he even can,” Yennefer didn’t really wait for an answer to drag Geralt through the portal. The effect was immediate. Just as he expected, a wave of intense nausea filled him and he was so dizzy he couldn’t see anything even when he opened his eyes. He could not hear for the blood roaring in his ears, but he did feel being supported on his way down to curl up on the ground, hopefully at the other side of the portal. 

“You didn’t say he was so unwell!” Mother Nenneke must have been waiting for them in the courtyard. There was snow where he lay, but cold stone under it too. “We’ll need help getting him upstairs!” The head of the temple was more perturbed than Geralt had ever seen her, but then again he wasn’t exactly seeing her now either. He had no intentions of loosening his firm grip on his stomach, no matter how much the priestess wanted to attend to it. No. He moaned and bit his teeth together, intending on working through the nausea by taking forceful and deliberated breaths through his nose. They pushed and prodded his shaking form and then he was lifted onto a board of wood, none of which helped the way he was feeling in any way. The worst though was knowing that he was losing the battle with his own body, something that was unacceptable for a Witcher.

“Can you help him you think?” The author’s gaze fleeted from one to the other. 

“We can, to some extent,” the older woman held in a dismissive manner as she was more focused on the Witcher.

“To some extent?” The bard screeched, not happy with the answer, “will he make it then?”

“We can help him,” Yennefer seemed more tuned in to his plight, “you can take my word for it.” She had a hand on Geralt’s arm as they went as well. “But the rest is up to him.”

“What does that mean? What rest are you talking about? The sleep kind?” Jaskier had to know, “can you explain without beating around the bush? That is my style, not yours.”

“He doesn’t believe anymore. Witchers need to have a balance between their inner world, morals and code,” Nenneke explained quickly, “the mutagens were built on that assumption. If a balance like that does not exist, they can become susceptible to disease, though I’ve never seen anyone so deeply affected.”

“So why is he? How does that matter?”

Nenneke paused in her walk and cast him a long, frowning look, clearly worked up, “Witchers are not supposed to live amongst humans and other beings with no magical traits for lengthy amounts of time. It interferes with their conditioning.”

The troubadour looked affronted, “you’re saying he is ill because of me, aren’t you?” 

“It only interferes if they can’t distance themselves both morally and emotionally,” Yennefer found a way for him to potentially disregard the conjecture if he chose so. 

“Emotionally? What does that one mean, again?”

“What do you think it means? He loves you, you idiot.” She frowned, clearly disapproving. 

“Either way, this is no good!” The bard panicked instead of being happy over the discovery of Geralt’s feelings, “should I leave right now? Would that help?”

“There’s no need for that in the dead of winter,” Nenneke seemed cold herself as the heavy door separating them from a gust of snow closed behind them, “Braiddea will show you to your room at the other end of the cloister,” she nodded at a younger woman not wearing priestess clothes, “because we will call you when you’re needed,” the head of the establishment dismissed him.

Tbc


	11. Abiding Loaf

Chapter 11: Abiding Loaf

Jaskier did not particularly like the Temple. On the one hand, he was undisturbed to carry on with his writing and provided with paper and ink to no end, found listening ears in the form of the many priestesses in training, some of which took the silent vow, on the other hand, the place was opposite to the liking of his adventurous nature and he worried that he was too close to Geralt and was thus somehow slowing his recovery. So when the Witcher entered his room without prior warning, Jaskier pushed himself to the furthest corner, as far as was possible in the small space.

“Bard, don’t be foolish. Your presence doesn’t hurt me,” the white haired man vowed, “it doesn’t work like that. It’s a balance. A sum of experiences I was meant to process in a better manner.”

“Well, I never! Why didn’t you tell me that living with me could hurt you?” Jaskier’s blue eyes were piercing as he accused.

“It didn’t hurt me, not for decades.”

“Not till the mountain as ‘twas,” the minstrel realised with a frozen heart.

“I’m sorry I..I was hoping for your company later on. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew that you would stay clear for good for my benefit and I could not imagine the Path without you, you not joining me at least once in a while.”

“Geralt, we need to stop doing that! I will of course leave as soon as the snowstorm allows, or in fact before.”

“No Jaskier,” Geralt slowly closed the distance slowly between them, “I’m feeling alright.”

“And how long before you don’t? How long before a monster takes advantage of your secrets?” Jaskier took a step forward in his anger as well. Desperation prickled his eyes with tears. He had to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt him. “It means a lot to me that you don’t want me out of your life, especially under these dire circumstances, but I won’t stand for causing you harm.”

“You don’t understand. There’s another solution I was told about,” Geralt sighed and sat down on the bed, “not one I like but one that both Nenneke and Yennefer are adamant on. They claim that I am too far gone and the only way to heal me is getting rid of my mutations. It’s not possible to get rid of all of them, but enough to matter, enough for..” The Witcher gulped.

“Enough that you will no longer be a Witcher,” Jaskier finished it for him, “but why would that be such a bad thing?”

“I don’t know how not to be a Witcher. It’s all I’ve ever been,” Geralt’s hand went to smooth over his abdomen idly, not fully conscious of it.

“Will your stomach stop hurting and eat you up from inside out?” Jaskier followed the hand with his eyes.

“That’s what they say..I’d be much closer to a human, though with practice, I’d still be able to cast some spells and age at a slightly slower rate than humans.”

“And your training will still be there, nobody can get rid of that. Is it safe though? This removal of mutations, that’s what I’d like to know.”

“Nenneke is more sure of that than Yen..but she will agree to help as well if I should decide so. What do you think?”

“You are asking me?” Jaskier was jovially proud he was included in the deliberation process. 

“Hmm,” Geralt looked all so confused and lost, casting a sideways glance at the other. 

“Seems to me there’s only one solution. If you don’t accept it, you will remain unpredictably sickly at times and that might indeed end you during a fight. Doing what they suggest, that’s what would give you a real chance, am I right, no?” The troubadour wasn’t sure himself how much of that opinion was clouded by his own selfishness and preference to be able to accompany the hunter.

“Mmm. That’s what they said. But it’s not the Witcher way.” 

“Only listen, you don’t need to heed the Witcher way as you would not be one anymore. Geralt, it’s not that bad, being humanlike,” he dared to put an encouraging hand on the other’s shoulder, you were once one.”

“Will you teach me?” Geralt asked quietly, reserved in his embarrassment. 

“Teach you?” Jaskier laughed, “Please. I’m sure it’s not needed, but anything you thus like!” Hope filled his chest, so much it hurt. He so much wanted this, Geralt well and able to be with him! 

“Vesemir will never agree either.”

“He can go flip himself. I never met him, but I cannot stand him. Imagine just standing by while little boys were kidnapped, held against their will, tortured and killed!”

“It wasn’t like that. Witchers were, are necessary and that was the only way. Really, you shouldn’t blame him. You weren’t there.”

“He hurt you, I understand that much. I will forever blame him whether you like it or not. There’s no excuse for such treatment.”

“Yen..” Geralt didn’t agree so he changed the subject, “I don’t know how she will see me after. Would she still be interested..”

That sentiment Jaskier could understand better. Love that wasn’t reciprocated quite the same was his speciality after all. “One has to live, isn’t that what she says? Yennefer would do anything for you, she often does in fact, she proved that,” the poet rubbed Geralt’s shoulder in comfort. “So when is this event meant to occur?”

“Tonight. Either that or you help me get away right now.”

“Is that why you came? For your sake, no chance I’ll help do that mate! Besides, wouldn’t Yennefer just hop after us.”

Geralt nodded, sad and resigned. He did not have the energy to argue, let alone anything else so he simply sat on Jaskier’s bed in a fatalistic manner as if nothing mattered anymore, “you see, I was told to rest up before the procedure.”

“You can do that right here, can’t you?” The troubadour indicated his bed with a nod. 

Geralt simply leaned to the side and on the pillow without further care, “mm, I can’t believe it came to this.”

“You’ll still be our Geralt.” Jaskier was unsure whether his friend would allow it, but he had a feeling that the Witcher needed it, so he sat by him and reached out tentatively to comb his fingers through the other’s hair. “And I will still love you,” he whispered. 

“That’s nice. I knew I would find him here,” Yennefer said from the doorframe with a scornful grin, “come, the both of you, we have lots to do in preparation.”

Tbc


	12. Amour Propre

Chapter 12: Amour Propre

The first thing Geralt saw when he came to, was Jaskier’s excited, yet sympathetic smile. Next, he looked around searchingly, trying to figure out what else had been happening to him, “how long have I been out for?” He creased his forehead in unease.

“A few days,” Jaskier frowned, “a few horrible days where we didn’t know if you would make it. Apparently getting rid of mutagen effects is just as hard as doing it the other way round. How are you feeling now?”

“Everything is so blurry.” 

“That would be because your eyes are no longer yellow. They are actually beautiful ocean blue I see,” the bard marvelled at them from up close.

“Blue?” Geralt felt some panic rise. He did not remember what colour his eyes were as a child and what he was hearing simply felt wrong. “What else is different?” He got into a visible flap, hands shaking.

“Well, your hair didn’t change back. I’m afraid you will always have white hair.”

“I obviously don’t care about my hair!” Geralt was harsh and impatient.

“Fine,” Jaskier replied quickly, not wanting to annoy him further, “well, don’t try to drink any of your old potions, they would poison you I’m told. We don’t know about your injury healing abilities as we haven’t tested them yet. But your hearing should be like a human’s.”

“Human..” Geralt lifted his arms to stare at his hands as if a change would have appeared there too and shook his head in disbelief. 

“Take it easy, your remaining mutations haven’t completely stabilised yet I’m told,” the bard hovered as the ex-Witcher pushed himself up and against the headboard, aiming for a better view of his circumstances. 

“So if I feel weak that’s just because of being human?” The warrior sounded insecure and overwhelmed. 

“Weak in what way?” His friend whined stupidly, having gotten nervous as well.

“Feeling like not being able to break the bed with a punch of the fist,” Geralt held one up.

“Oh no, there’s no need for that! I don’t think you should try. But are you dizzy? Or nauseous?”

“No. But I can barely smell anything in this room or beyond.”

Jaskier laughed, “that should be a good thing in most cases. Geralt, everything is alright, as long as you’re not in pain or feeling ill,” he patronised.

The convalescent took a longer moment to look into himself this time, somewhat puzzled, but more settled, “I’m hungry I think.”

“You haven’t said that word in weeks!” Jaskier rejoiced, “your stomach’s alright then I take it?” He couldn’t help not running a hand over the other’s abdomen just to confirm the good news.

Geralt shirked back on instinct, but he found that neither the touch, or the sudden movement caused him any discomfort. He raised his shirt himself to convince himself, “it doesn’t hurt after all,” he poked himself in marvel in the navel. 

“I don’t know if Yennefer can cook, but she was threatening to do it earlier because of the bland temple food at this cult.”

“Yennefer can cook,” Geralt confirmed, “it is not so different to making potions. She just prefers not to.”

“Not this time. I think it has to be something with bell peppers, by the sniff of it.”

“Peppers..” The ex Witcher paused, frowning, “yes, you’re right, I can smell it now.” Still, he was perturbed that Jaskier had to note and say it first. 

“Why can’t she just magic it up at once?”

“Yen..” Geralt looked unsettled at the question, “she could have if she would have liked to spare the time. I on the other hand,” the warrior stared at his fingers now he poised in the Igni position for nothing to happen.

“They said something about using different techniques you can learn for those in the future. I wouldn’t worry about it Geralt,” Jaskier felt sympathetic for his plight, “let’s go eat. Can you stand?”

“I think so,” the other man found that his mouth was filling with saliva in anticipation despite his diminished senses. He felt his heart starting to beat faster as he moved to stand, that was strange. He paused, looking at Jaskier in question, who took to steadying him immediately, taking his look as a call for help. Geralt froze though, “no but Yen..” 

“What about Yen again?” Jaskier was a little annoyed that it was the woman who was always on his mind, “praise be the mage.”

“I can’t go there. She will never look at me the same way.”

“The Yen who exhausted her own magic without a chance to replenish it for many months to come to save you?” The bard had to give her her dues. In truth, he will forever be thankful.

“She did what?”

“She had to give up her ability to summon lightning as well and she did it, willingly, despite Nenneke and the other priestesses’ objections, springs of virtue and wisdom as they are.”

“Irrespectively, she’ll hate me for it then.”

Jaskier shook his head, “you’re an idiot, Geralt. You don’t understand how much you’re loved by us all. Now come, enjoy the rest of your life. With me, with Yennefer, with whoever you want. Nothing can stop you anymore,” he embraced Geralt cheerfully.

The End.


End file.
